bilingue

a horn sounds in the mission
waking the morning up,

as
the men go to sit in the streets
waiting,

on césar chavez,
on Harrison,
by the Salvo.

as
the women go to look after kids
that aren’t theirs.

their parents wanting to save,
and like the idea
d’être

Bilingue.

Bilingual, like the
neighbourhood itself

mixing and diversifying

the real mission
from
the fake mission.

the artists and the poets
think it is oh so hip

d’être
une partie
de la communauté.

all the while--



a horn sounds in hayes valley
waking the afternoon up.

in hayes valley,
in the marina,
in SOMA,

as
ladies and gents
with
more money than sense

ignore the reality,
of any given situation.

in favour
of good fun,
designer clothing,
spending each meal.

they favour,
a Cosmo over a Tequila;
they favour,
Armani over the Salvo;
they favour,
Chevys over Taquería Cancun.

they walk in their heels

as
the people in the streets are stepped over,
by these, their wealthier neighbours

but deep down they know
it’s their city too.

they know
they are
Bilingual.


a horn sounds in the mission,
waking the evening up.

as
the kids
in bright clothes

leave their
fancy loft apartments
head off to the bars
to defina

as
the families sit down
to eat,

grandmother
with grandchild,

their flauntas,
their papusas.


i know i don’t even
begin
to understand

the complexity

of this situation.

i know that this
may
be the most

naïve thing

you’ve ever heard.

i know that i’m
an
outsider

looking in
at the thousands
of residents
of this insane city.

in this city
in this country.

i know that i’m
a
foreigner

a green card holder
through
luck,
and a failed marriage.

but still

i feel as though

i bilingue

(though maybe that’s just
a fallacy).

but --
anyway --

whether its right or its wrong

i can spend a hour
of my time

marking

a sight/site

or two.

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